


The Circle Game

by allthatconfetti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Belgium NT, Belgium National Team, M/M, Tottenham Hotspur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthatconfetti/pseuds/allthatconfetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the World Cup, Jan tells Mousa that he's thinking about transferring to Barcelona.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Circle Game

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Annegret for being the best fandom wife ever and for being the most awesome beta, twice over :) Also thanks to my lovely artist [Isana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kkslover9/pseuds/kkslover9) for coming up with [a great mix](http://www.mediafire.com/download/fy8ldeb398auhze/The_Circle_Game.zip) for my fic. You were fun to collaborate with on this, and I appreciate your work so much. xoxo

 

****

 

_yesterday a child came out to wonder  
caught a dragonfly inside a jar  
fearful when the sky was full of thunder  
and tearful at the falling of a star_  
  
  
p.  
  
when jan tells him about barcelona, mousa says nothing.  
  
he tells him over potatoes and chicken and in between comments about how his muscles still ache after the last match against the usa. he talks and talks and mousa scoops up his broccoli, letting him talk and saying nothing.  
  
he has been here before and the story is always the same. jan takes him to places he's never been, but he always ends up leaving.  
  
\--  
  
  
it starts with a ball.  
  
he's walking to the park and practicing keep-ups when something hits the back of his head hard enough to make him lose his ball. he yelps, turns to glare at the offender.  
  
it's a boy about his age, except taller, freckled and pale. his eyes are wide with apology.  
  
'sorry, sorry,' the boy exclaims loudly, his voice high-pitched and panicked. he trips a little in his rush to retrieve the two balls rolling on the grass away from them. he walks back and hands him his ball, a broad grin on his face.  
  
'here.'  
  
'thanks.' he's still mildly annoyed.  
  
'you play?'  
  
'yeah.'  
  
'you good?'  
  
he shrugs.  
  
'come on, let's play!'  
  
he hesitates. his mother always told him not to talk to strangers. even other kids.  
  
but maybe.  
  
'what's your name?' if he knew his name he wouldn't be a stranger. he feels a bit proud about sidestepping his mom's rule.  
  
'me? i'm jan.' the boy smiles. he's always smiling, it seems.  
  
'i'm mousa.'  
  
'mousa,' the boy repeats. he nods, as if committing his name to memory. 'okay mousa, let's play.'  
  
they do.  
  
\--  
  
he's twelve and it feels like the world is at his fingertips. his mom doesn't know it but he sees things, hears things. he knows that those smart-looking men hovering around the bleachers during his games are scouts, agents, and that they are all telling his mom the same thing.  _he has talent, you should nurture it. we can help you._  
  
his mom just wants him to stop breaking things in the house, even if she doesn't say so.  
  
maybe he doesn't really understand. to him, it just means that he might get to play more. he wants to play, maybe do something that would make his parents, his grandma proud.  
  
he knows the people watching him are the same people watching jan. jan, who grows taller and whose hair gets messier every time they see each other.  
  
\--  
  
it's the last few minutes and mousa's eyes dart rapidly between the field and the clock hovering above the pitch. his heart is in his mouth and he's tense, so tense that he has to consciously remember to breathe. his teammates look the same. some are pacing while others are hunched over on the bench, exchanging terse whispers with one another. marc, their coach, prowls the technical area, gesturing wildly one minute and being completely and utterly silent the next. the ball keeps going back and forth, from one side of the pitch to the other.  
  
finally, the whistle sounds.  
  
they win.  
  
he walks onto the pitch, almost dizzy, his ears buzzing with the roar of the stadium and his lungs heavy with the humidity of brazilian air.  
  
it doesn't matter. they won. they're in the quarterfinals.  
  
 _incredible._  
  
he finally sees him. jan is lying on the pitch, his eyes closed. he's breathing heavily and stretching his legs.  
  
'hey!'  
  
jan opens one eye, and the corners of his mouth lift.  
  
'hey.'  
  
'get up, you idiot,' mousa reaches to pull him up.  
  
jan sways a little after getting up, and he wraps an arm around his waist, steadying him. jan burrows his head into the crook of his neck. he can feel him breathe against his skin, steadying himself for a second before drawing away. he takes the water bottle mousa brought along with him and gulps the liquid down gratefully.  
  
then he laughs, loud and sharp and absolutely exhilarated.  
  
'we did it, mous.'  
  
mousa beams at him. it is a small moment in the middle of the pitch while the world cheers, watches, waits.  
  
'we did.'  
  
they go and shake hands with the opposition before they celebrate, raucously, deliriously, with their teammates, with the staff, with their fans.  
  
belgium is in the world cup quarterfinals.  
  
\--  
  
'did franck come and see you?' jan asks. they play in the street, using lamp posts as goals. they're fifteen, and old enough to decide if this is worth pursuing. mousa lightly taps the top of the ball with his toes as he repeats jan's question in his head.  
  
'who is franck again?' he tries to dribble the ball past jan to score but doesn't quite manage it.  
  
'he's with germinal beerschot. he asked me if i knew anyone my age who played and i said,' jan says as he nudges close to mousa, trying to block him, 'i said there was you.'  
  
he tries to take a step closer to the posts--closer to the goal--but jan is in the way. he can feel jan's breath in his ear, hear his grunts as he backs into him. he is fleetingly impressed that jan doesn’t budge, not even a little bit. last year mousa would have flattened him, even if he was the taller of the two of them.  
  
'is this where you learned how to mark properly?' mousa teases him and gets a nudge from the back that nearly sends him sprawling onto the concrete. he laughs, and then jan laughs. it's always easy between them.  
  
'i wish to play with you more often,' jan tells him all the time. mousa wants this too. he likes playing football with jan more than any other person. jan makes him better because he knows the way he likes to pass the ball, and it forces him to think of other ways to move from here to there. he likes to think he leaves the same kind of impression.  
  
he always looks forward to seeing jan. jan, with his messy hair and his big blue eyes that always widen whenever mousa finds a different way to score. jan, who talks too fast, moves too much, laughs too loud and dreams too big. whenever he's with jan, he feels a little braver. he feels like he can take on the world.  
  
\--  
  
 _then the child moved ten times round the seasons_  
 _skated over ten clear frozen streams_  
 _words like, when you're older, must appease him_  
 _and promises of someday make his dreams_  
  
\--  
  
seven hundred and seven.  
  
that's how many miles it is between london and barcelona. he looked it up.  
  
the actual decision would have to wait until after the world cup, jan tells him. he just wanted to tell mousa first, tell him as he's always told him about the things he wanted in football, in life. jan was so bright, even as a scrawny little kid from sint-niklaas, and he wanted so many things. he wanted trophies, medals, big clubs, captaincies. everything he had done, everything he always did, had always been gearing towards the bigger picture. a legacy.  
  
mousa knows this about him. he knew even when they were kids kicking a ball around on the streets of antwerp that jan had many dreams, dreams that were bigger than a small youth academy in belgium. his ambitions stretched beyond belgium, beyond him, beyond this... whatever they had together.  
  
once, a long time ago, at the beginning of this, jan told him that he was more of a home than the house he lived in. mousa believed him then. it got harder to hold onto that belief every time jan packed up his things.  
  
\--  
  
he goes to beerschot.  
  
jan is delighted. he spends the first day showing him around the facilities, his voice so enthusiastic that it's decibels higher than normal. he introduces him to everyone, the players, the physios and the coaches, and tells everyone how this is the 'amazing' player he had told them all about.  
  
everyone seems to know who he is already. mousa has never blushed so much in his life.  
  
he tells jan to stop saying things about him that aren’t true. jan looks back at him, surprised.  
  
'what's not true? i only told them what i thought.'  
  
'you keep telling them i'm an amazing player!'  
  
'because,' and jan stops in his tracks, reaches out to encircle mousa's right wrist with his fingers. mousa is caught off guard at the sudden contact, at the way jan's fingers feel so warm against his skin. jan tugs, and he looks up, looks straight at him. something shifts inside him, and he feels warmth, unbearable warmth, shoot up from his stomach and settle behind his ears.  
  
jan's eyes flick from their joined hands to his face, and what he sees on mousa's face brings a small, quiet smile out of him.  
  
'because you are, i really think you are,' he says. 'you are... you are so talented, mous. and i cannot wait to play with you everyday.'  
  
mousa ducks his head because he does not know what to say. he stares hard at his shoelaces.  
  
jan laughs loudly, suddenly and throws his arms around him.  
  
'don't worry, i'll take care of you.'  
  
\--  
  
'mousa? are you okay?'  
  
 _he isn't. he feels sick, sick to his stomach. he wants to shake him, yell at him, demand an answer.  
  
why are you leaving?  
  
why do you keep leaving?_  
  
'i'm fine.'  
  
'are you sure?'  
  
 _no, i am not. you should know. you know me better than anyone. you know when i need to laugh, when i'm trying to hide an injury, when i want to fuck you, and when i want to be alone. why can't you tell i'm not okay?_  
  
'yes.'  
  
'okay...' jan sounds uncertain. he keeps looking at mousa's face. mousa tries hard to keep his expression as neutral as possible.  
  
'we should go. i need to talk to the coach.'  
  
\--  
  
it happens on a thursday.  
  
mousa's just scored a hattrick during five-a-side in training, and he's pleased, so pleased he can't keep the smile off his face. the coach had given him a meaningful clap on the shoulder, and toby and radja kept ruffling his hair and giving him playful shoves all the way to the showers. he takes his time in the locker room, and hears the voices outside the shower area continue to dim until all he hears are the echoes of their laughter in the hall.  
  
he doesn't mind. he likes this time alone. it gives him time to think about how he felt when he scored the third goal, when someone grabbed him from behind and twirled him around in an ecstatic circle. he knew without looking that it was jan. jan, who laughed in his ear and pressed his mouth at the base of his neck before screaming ecstatically at their other teammates.  
  
he turns the showers off. in the silence of the locker room, he vaguely hears the sound of rain outside. he dresses, puts everything back in his locker and idly thinks about the sprint he will be making from the pitch to the car park.  
  
he opens the door and jan is there.  
  
he is leaning against the wall, in his regular clothes, with his bag slung over his shoulders, an unusually serious expression on his face. he's a little damp, like he had already been in the rain, and decided to turn back.  
  
he remembers jan's mouth on his neck and his insides clench a little.  
  
'you're still here.'  
  
jan looks at him, smiles. 'it took you long enough. slowpoke.'  
  
he reaches out and clasps his wrist. he's always doing that.  
  
'you're all wet.'  
  
'it's raining.'  
  
'why did you come back?'  
  
jan makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat.  
  
'i needed, i needed to tell you something.'  
  
he takes a deep breath. mousa leans against the wall next to him. jan is taller now, much taller than him, and he smells like clean soap, grass and strawberries from that gum he likes to chew.  
  
'did you see the man at the training last monday? the scout?'  
  
mousa nods. the coach had told them all about it. he was from amsterdam.  
  
'he wants to sign me. he talked to my parents and he talked to me, just now.'  
  
'what did you say?'  
  
'i said i'd sign. i said i’d go. to ajax, in amsterdam.'  
  
the world tilts.  
  
'i'm not coming in tomorrow. i already said goodbye to toby and the others. i have to,' jan waves his other hand around, 'pack and stuff.'  
  
mousa tries to find his voice. 'you're… you’re leaving?'  
  
jan looks at him. he's nearly vibrating with excitement.  
  
'it's ajax, mous. ajax. and they think i'm good enough for them! it's, wow.' he chuckles, 'it's a big thing.'  
  
mousa coughs, tries to think. ajax is a fantastic opportunity. such a big, important club.  
  
'it is a big thing. wow. wow, jantje.'  
  
jan is practically glowing. 'maybe they'll like me and they'll put me on the team. that's what mr. brede told me. he's the scout. vermaelen went, you know. he used to play here and now he is at ajax and he might be playing champions league soon.  _champions league_.'  
  
mousa's mind is still whirling. 'congratulations,' he manages. he is only somewhat aware that jan's hand is still on his wrist, and that his fingers are rubbing absent-minded circles on his pulse. 'i will wait to see you on tv then.'  
  
jan laughs. he's filled with such joy that he is compelled to smile even if his mind is racing and he feels like he's been punched in the stomach. how can he not be happy for him, his friend, his best friend?  
  
'will you miss me, mousa dembélé?'  
  
'what?'  
  
jan is looking at him now, looking straight at him. he's not laughing anymore. he looks, rather, very very serious, and he's leaning over to him. he's giving mousa a small, nervous smile, and his eyes keep darting from the floor to mousa's face.  
  
'i said, will you miss me?'  
  
'you're such a jerk,' mousa replies, half-heartedly. his eyes flick from jan's eyes to his lips. he's so close.  
  
all of a sudden, jan is placing his hands on either side of mousa's face and pressing his lips to his.  
  
it happens so quickly that before mousa can even think about what is happening, jan is already pulling back, red in the face and looking absolutely terrified.  
  
mousa stares back, wide-eyed. he is still staring when jan picks up his things and runs down the hall, and out of beerschot.  
  
\--  
  
he gets called up to the u-17s for the first time in his life later that year and they win 2-0 over holland. when he gets home, there is an ajax postcard waiting for him.  
  
'mousa dembélé, best player in the world!!!! don't forget me when you make it to the senior team!!!! love, jantje.'  
  
it makes him smile, smile so widely that it hurts a little in his chest.  
  
\--  
  
dries tells him he looks awful.  
  
they're playing argentina in the quarterfinals, and the game has just kicked off. jan starts. mousa, with his terrible hip twinges and slight hamstring problem, does not. he ignores the small seed of resentment lodged somewhere in the middle of his chest because he's part of the team, and the team comes first. always.  
  
dries looks so concerned about him. he keeps nudging his shoulder and peering at his face, until finally mousa tells him, snaps at him, that he's fine. he looks a little hurt, and mousa is sorry. dries is one of the genuinely nicest people he has ever known, and one of his closest friends. he wants to tell dries, wants to ask for his advice, but dries would suggest that he tell jan about how he feels, and the last thing mousa wants is for jan to be distracted before such an important game.  
  
 _(it strikes him that no matter what jan does, mousa always thinks of him first.)_  
  
he turns to dries, tries to apologize when he hears a roar from the crowd.  
  
goal argentina. higuaín.  
  
\--  
  
 _sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now_  
 _cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town_  
 _and they tell him,_  
 _take your time, it won't be long now_  
 _till you drag your feet to slow the circles down_  
  
\--  
  
his hair is different, is the first thing mousa thinks the next time they see each other. the messy mop of light brown is clipped short and neat. it makes him look like such a polite boy.  
  
polite is not the word he thinks of when he thinks of jan vertonghen.  
  
jan laughs when he tells him that, laughs and wraps an arm around his shoulder. it's so easy, and the years melt away between them. jan tells him all about ajax, where he lives in amsterdam, and all the famous legends who have been in to talk to the youth team. he's already playing with the reserves and it's only a matter of time, they tell him, for him to get his chance with the first team.  
  
he's effervescent.  
  
he talks to mousa about him, about how excited he was when he heard that he'd also moved to holland, about how good he is for willem II and how he hopes that maybe ajax will make a bid for him so they can play together again.  
  
he doesn't tell jan that ajax already did, and that he'd said no.  
  
 _(why he did, he's not really sure. when he got the offer the first thing he thought of was 'jan' and maybe it's because of that, because the first thing he thinks of is the name of this boy and not his future, not his career, that he turns it down and signs up for another, smaller team in the league.)_  
  
neither does he tell jan that he's said that before, and that history has a funny way of repeating itself.  
  
he keeps all these things to himself. it's jan's first senior team call-up, and he's so thrilled at everything that mousa has to smile. he'd already been called up about a year earlier, so none of this is new. he's in a peculiar position of introducing things to jan this time around.  
  
it is only when he asks jan about his room that he realizes that they've been assigned to the same one.  
  
'i have to ask you something,' he says as jan closes the door behind them.  
  
'hmm? what's up, mous?' jan is slightly distracted. he makes a noise expressing just how cool he finds his bed, and jumps on it appreciatively, only half paying attention to the other boy. the lights are dimmed in the room, and people are running up and down the hallways. they're the two youngest in the squad, so nobody is banging on their doors for a quick game of playstation on a console the older guys smuggled in. in the yellow hotel light, bouncing and laughing on the bed, jan looks so much younger.  
  
mousa gathers some courage, breathes in and says it in one go.   
  
'the last time i saw you, you kissed me.'  
  
the other boy turns red, ducks his head.  
  
'it was a, a stupid thing, mous,' he says after awhile.  
  
'did you,' mousa is staring hard at his trainers. 'was it a mistake?' he knows the answer to this question will probably change everything, but he needs to ask. he needs to know.  
  
silence.  
  
'no.' then jan laughs a little. 'i've been wanting to do that for years. you're so stupid.' he shifts until their knees are touching.  
  
'i'm sorry. i should have asked if it was okay first.'  
  
mousa still hasn't said anything.  
  
'if you want to forget it ever happened, i--'  
  
mousa doesn't think, doesn't even stop to think twice because he doesn't want to forget it happened. he relives it in the most inopportune moments like before he wakes up in the morning and while he's tying his shoes before going onto the pitch to play. whenever he thinks about how jan is doing, he remembers the smell of the rain, the sound of his laugh and the way his lips felt on his skin, on his lips.  
  
so he grabs jan's shoulders and before he regains his senses, he kisses him. he kisses him because it's all he's been thinking about doing since that thursday in antwerp, before jan left him in that hallway, alone and confused. it's just like the first time, except jan is the one caught by surprise. his mouth opens and mousa goes by instinct and breathes him in. he still smells like grass and strawberries. he runs his hands from jan's shoulders to his nape, holds his face as he pours four years of restless dreams into reality.  
  
it feels dangerous, it feels like coming home.  
  
he pulls away because there's no more air, because he's getting dizzy from how the inside of jan's mouth tastes on his tongue. 'sorry. is this... okay?' he realizes that maybe he should have asked too.  
  
jan looks dazed and his face is red. he replies by pulling mousa's face back to his.  
  
they don't talk much for the rest of the night.  
  
\--  
  
they lose in the quarterfinals of the world cup.  
  
they tell themselves that they've overachieved, that they are a young team and that not much was expected of them but it's hard not to be disappointed when they had so many chances. kevin's face is red from trying not to cry, and even vincent's clasp on his shoulder is lacking its usual effect. the truth is that they could have won, but they didn't.  
  
jan is particularly upset. he can tell because he's slumped in the seat next to him the entire ride back to the hotel. he doesn't say anything but he knows jan blames himself for the deflection, just like how vinnie blames himself for being caught out of position, and how thibaut blames himself for not being quick enough to stop the ball from flying in.  
  
jan leans against him a little during the ride back, without saying a word. mousa's still upset, but he lets him. before anything else, he understands football. and like jan, he hates to lose.  
  
\--  
  
it happens on another thursday.  
  
he opens the door, and jan is there, leaning against the wall, bag slung over his shoulder. a cockerel balancing on a ball is splayed across the front of his tshirt, and he’s wearing a huge grin.  
  
'ding dong, is there a mousa dembélé in here?'  
  
mousa smiles, leans against the doorframe. 'welcome to london, my friend.'  
  
he grabs the front of jan's shirt and pulls him in, pushes him against the door. jan makes an impressed noise. 'you're very aggressive, where is the real mousa demb--'  
  
he cuts him off with a kiss before jan goes into one of his silly moods and ends up annoying mousa. the fact is that jan has just moved from amsterdam to a flat two streets away from him in london, and is wearing too many clothes for his liking at the moment. 'stop talking,' mousa mumbles against his mouth, his hands already searching to get under jan's spurs shirt.  
  
jan makes a sound like he's willing to oblige. he's toeing off his shoes and his jeans while trying not to stumble over them as they make their way to the living room. they collapse on the couch in a pile of limbs.  
  
‘you’re wearing too many clothes,’ mousa grumbles a little. he hooks his fingers over the waistband of jan’s underwear while jan tries to tug his t-shirt off. it's a messy, uncoordinated set of affairs, but they manage to get all their clothes off in a matter of seconds.  
  
jan is already half-hard when mousa takes him into his mouth. the groan that escapes him when he does is long and delicious, and it makes mousa smile wickedly. he runs his tongue up and down the length of him, trying to wring every wretched sob from jan’s throat. he loves it when jan is like this, completely wanton and unrestrained and his, undeniably his.  
  
he backs off when he knows jan is close, when he’s clutching at the pillows and his hips are jerking uncontrollably. he moves up the length of jan, and jan climbs over his hips and lines their cocks together. it's his turn to moan, his turn to grit his teeth and whine jan’s name, because his mouth is on his neck and his hand is on his cock. they kiss with teeth and tongue and a playfulness that comes from years of history and affection.  
  
mousa growls a little at jan, and jan laughs, because he knows mousa is at the end of his patience. he digs for the condom in the pocket of his pants and the little packet of lube. mousa makes a joke about his hair and being a boy scout, but the punch lines dies on his lips when jan’s fingers open him up. he’s practically breathless by the time jan enters him slowly, carefully. mousa arches his back. it's been so long.  
  
he gasps, cries out jan’s name when jan hits a particular spot inside him, and jan is kissing him with so much love and fondness that it strikes him that for the foreseeable future, in between all the football and training and media commitments, his nights will be spent coming home to this, to jan. his heart feels like it's leaping, and it takes only a few strokes before he comes. jan follows minutes later, mousa’s mouth swallowing his cry of release.  
  
maybe, just maybe, this could work.  
  
later, much later, when the sun is set and mousa is making noises about going out for something to eat, jan presses his lips to the side of his throat. he traces little circles on mousa’s bicep and mousa knows that he's about to tell him what's on his mind.  
  
'i heard an interesting transfer rumor on the news today.'  
  
ah. 'you shouldn't believe everything on sky sports.'  
  
'so it's not true?'  
  
'what?'  
  
'that tottenham is talking to fulham about you.'  
  
mousa shrugs.  
  
'mous, why didn't you tell me? this is amazing! we could play together again!'  
  
'nothing is definite yet.'  
  
'but you would go if they agree, right?'  
  
mousa hesitates. jan is looking at him, his hair still frustratingly neat and his eyes suddenly bright with excitement.  
  
'i'll think about it.'  
  
jan shrugs, before smirking playfully at him. 'i could try to convince you.'  
  
mousa laughs, glad that they can table the discussion for awhile longer. 'well, you could try.'  
  
\--  
  
mousa knocks on jan's hotel room door.  
  
their flight leaves at noon the next day, so there is enough time.  
  
jan opens the door, and steps back, wordlessly, to let him in. he shuts the door behind him and walks past him to sit on the bed.  
  
'so you're talking to me again now?'  
  
mousa instinctively wants to glare at him, but he knows that this is simply jan's way of acting out his own anger and disappointment. he swallows, then sits down next to him on the bed.  
  
'jantje.'  
  
'what?'  
  
'don't.'  
  
jan laughs humorlessly. he takes off his shirt, and mousa does the same.  
  
they lie down next to each other, and jan is the first to move. he reaches into mousa's sweats and takes his cock into his palm. he strokes him slowly, languidly, until mousa's groaning into jan's bare shoulder. he grasps jan's shoulders and arches into his arms, sinking his teeth into his collarbone. jan hisses in response as mousa licks a line from his throat to his ear. mousa finds jan's mouth and swallows the low moan he makes as he wraps a hand around his cock. he bites jan's pouting lower lip as he bucks his hips ungracefully into mousa’s hand.  
  
they stay like this, rutting against each others’ touch, until finally, jan comes with a shudder. he slumps against mousa, his mouth latching onto a spot behind mousa's ear that he knows drives him crazy. he whispers mousa's name into his ear, strokes him faster and tells him to come, and he does.  
  
they face each other.  
  
'stop blaming yourself.'  
  
jan's eyes lower. 'it deflected off me, mous,' he finally says after awhile. 'right into higuaín's fucking path. millions of people saw that. millions.'  
  
'no one is blaming you.'  
  
'that's not true.'  
  
'you don't count.'  
  
jan glares at him. mousa knows that sometimes the best way with jan is just to be direct with him.  
  
'you are so stubborn, jantje.'  
  
'why were you mad at me this week?'  
  
mousa stops, thinks about what to say. 'i wasn’t mad.'  
  
'that's a lie.'  
  
'oh, so now you can tell that what i'm saying is a lie?'  
  
jan looks calmer now. 'why couldn't you just tell me you were upset about barcelona?'  
  
'because why should i? it's your career, it's your choice.' mousa sits up, agitated. he looks for his shirt.  
  
'you're an idiot. it matters because you matter. what you think matters.'  
  
'i did not come here to fight, jan.'  
  
'no, you came here to give me a handjob, which i appreciate.'  
  
he's already halfway to the door.  
  
'mousa.'  
  
he opens the door, looks back one last time. jan is wrapped in cotton sheets, his hair unkempt and his lips swollen. he's annoyed, and his cheeks are flushed with sex and indignation.  
  
he sighs.  
  
'it's all cycles with us, jan. think about it. if you want to go, then you should go. you should be where you want to be. where that is for you, i don't know, but i wish you the best of luck.'  
  
\--  
  
 _so the years spin by and now the boy is twenty,_  
 _though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true._  
 _there'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty,_  
 _before the last revolving year is through._  
  
\--  
  
he sits with kevin on the plane ride back. kevin looks at him quizzically but he doesn't say anything, only passes him a pack of mixed nuts when the flight attendant gives them some.  
  
out of the corner of his eye, he sees jan sit next to dries. they're talking in low, hushed whispers, talking and talking and talking, and finally mousa gets tired and ignores them for the rest of the trip.  
  
at some point during the flight, he realizes that as selfish as he thinks jan is being, not supporting jan’s choices would be just as, if not more, selfish. and as mad as he is at jan wanting to transfer to barcelona, him being at another club, in another league, in another country, doesn’t mean that he loves him any less. if it meant going back to their old routine of seeing each other every odd weekend and international break, then they would make it work.  
  
football is stupid, he decides. he finishes the pack of nuts, jams his headphones on and sleeps the rest of the way home.  
  
\--  
  
he sends jan a postcard of the sagrada familia bathed in sunlight when he gets back.  
  
‘the weather better be this nice when i visit’  
  
\--  
  
jan tells him that barcelona is off while they're at preseason with tottenham in america.  
  
he says it nonchalantly, in between asking for extra sugar for his coffee and wondering what they'll be eating for dinner. mousa looks at him, his brows furrowed suspiciously. jan simply smiles back and says something about new cycles. mousa wants to ask, but jan clasps his wrist, briefly, and says he wants to catch up with lewis and christian first. they'll talk later, he says, before he leaves.  
  
nacer looks at him, asks him if he's okay, and mousa tells him he's fine. because maybe he is.  
  
jan has always been full of shit.  
  
but mousa believes him. he always does.  
  
  
 _and the seasons, they go round and round,_  
 _and the painted ponies go up and down,_  
 _we’re captive on a carousel of time,_  
 _we can’t return we can only look_  
 _behind from where we came_  
 _and go round and round and round_  
 _in the circle game._

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1.     A ship primer on these two stupid pretty boys can be found [here](http://allthatconfetti.livejournal.com/5646.html), if you’re interested in finding out more about them.   
>  2.      Vertonghen and Dembele have been friends for a long time. Sources vary. They both say they’ve been friends since they were 10 or 11, sometimes they say they’ve been friends since they were 12. Whatever the age or year was, it was definitely before they both played for the youth/reserves of Germinal Beerschot (GB) in 2003.   
>  3\.      Interestingly, a lot of their senior national teammates are also Germinal Beerschot alums, such as Thomas Vermaelen, Radja Nainggolan, Toby Alderweireld and more.   
>  4.      Jan was at GB first, playing there from 2000 to 2003 before moving to Ajax Amsterdam. Mousa was there from 2003 to 2006, before moving to Willem II, a smaller team in the same league as Ajax, the Eredivisie. Prior to that, they both played for different youth teams. They both say they’ve kept in touch through the years, even when Jan was at Ajax and Mousa was still in Belgium with GB.   
>  5.      Ajax was interested in taking Mousa from GB as well (Ajax and GB have close ties), but he declined to go to Willem II instead. No reasons were really disclosed for his refusal.   
>  6.      Mousa was called up to the U17s and the senior national team ahead of Jan. He made his debut in 2006, while Jan made his in 2007.    
>  7.      [Jan always believed that Mousa was destined to be a great player](http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/premier-league/exclusive-interview-jan-vertonghen-spurred-on-by-tottenhams-fight-for-fourth-8418339.html) because he always played in age groups above his own. He also kind of played a part in Mousa’s transfer from Fulham FC to Tottenham Hotspur in 2012, when he arrived at Tottenham and heard that the club was talking to Fulham about Mousa.   
>  8.      Jan was one of FC Barcelona’s options to sign as CB, and after a tumultuous second season at Tottenham Hotspur, rumors were rampant that he would be leaving the London club for Barcelona. The transfer never came to be and FC Barcelona moved for Thomas Vermaelen instead. Jan (and Mousa) remain Tottenham Hotspur players for at least the first half of the 2014-2015 Premier League season.


End file.
